


Frivolous Spending

by kaijuburgers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fisting, Dragon Age Prompt Generator, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), Fisting, M/M, Magical Vibrators, Oral Sex, Porn which ended up with far too much plot, Self-Indulgent, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Strap-Ons, This is so self indulgent I hope somebody else gets something out of it, Trans Male Character, t4t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27778066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/pseuds/kaijuburgers
Summary: Prompt: M!Adaar & M!Cadash. Frivolous Spending-Inquisitor Tal-Maraas Adaar knows immediately that the handsome dwarf who slides into the seat next to him in the Herald’s Rest is Carta. That doesn't mean he can't have a little fun figuring out why the man is in Skyhold.
Relationships: Male Adaar/Male Cadash (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Frivolous Spending

The handsome dwarf who slides into the seat next to Tal-Maraas Adaar in the Herald’s Rest is Carta; that much is obvious. It’s the buttons on his coat that gave him away at first: round and gold and stamped with the kind of ancient patterns that dwarves who’ve only ever known the surface don’t tend to wear. He’s trying very hard to hide it though, and if Tal-Maraas were less observant he’d probably be succeeding. It’s only now that he’s noticed the buttons he sees anything else. There’s something gentle and kindly in his expression—something that feels genuine in the way he smiles at Tal-Maraas as he brushes a strand of long red hair out from his face. It would be very easy, Tal-Maraas thinks, to take the man as a simple traveller or merchant—but he knows a combatant when he sees one. There’s something too perfect in the roughness of the dwarf’s movements — his eyes lingering just a little longer than needed for a casual glance, his fingers twitching at loud sounds just a little too easily — as if they’re ready to jump to the weapon he must have hidden somewhere. 

If Tal-Maraas were one for wise decisions, he’d excuse himself from the tavern immediately, inform Leliana, and then retire to his private quarters. Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending on which way you look at it — he’s never been one for wise decisions.

“You’re new around here, right?” he says pointedly to the dwarf, hiding it behind what he hopes is a genuine-looking smile. “Haven’t seen you in the Herald’s Rest before. What’s brought you to Skyhold?”

“Heard about the Inquisition," the other man says, and he’s a damn good liar. The words sound smooth and dark as Storm Coast honey in his Starkhaven accent, full of promises that — in other circumstances — Tal-Maraas would be very willing to take him up on. He makes eye contact but doesn’t hold it too long, the movement of his arm as he rests it on the tavern bar fluid enough that it doesn’t look stiff—but not so fluid that he looks like he’s overcompensating. “Some stories from others who’d passed through. Thought I’d come to see what it was like.”

Tal-Maraas can’t resist prodding. He sips the last of the fruit kvass from his stein, the mild mint and strawberry flavour going down quick and easy. “And?” He asks, trying not to give off how excited he is to be the one to find a spy rather than just hear about them. “Any thoughts?”

The dwarf looks him up and down. Tal-Maraas knows it’s exaggerated for his benefit, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel himself flushing. Those green eyes curve around his horns before moving down to his broad shoulders and chest, something hungry in their gaze. “Well," he begins, low voice near purring. “The Inquisition attracts some fine people, that’s for sure.”

It’s a little shameful to admit, but the qunari’s breath catches in his throat and he’s pretty sure his face is as bright red as the dwarf’s hair and beard. It’s nice to have the attention; to have somebody flirt with him so openly and shamelessly instead of treating him like something untouchable and sacred. Sometimes he wonders if Andraste also had trouble with this kind of thing. Or at least, he wonders about it before he remembers Shartan, and then remembers how uncomfortable it makes him to be compared to Andraste. It’s the novelty of the situation, he tells himself, that’s making him play along with this Carta agent who very clearly is trying to get him alone. It’s not for any other reason, even if he finds it hard to pull his eyes away from the other man to gesture to Cabot. Even beyond the smooth talking he’s handsome: a mess of curly hair tied back into a loose ponytail with black ribbon, a short but neatly groomed beard that’s just as red as the hair on his head, a thick carpet of freckles on every inch of visible skin, a simple gold hoop earring in his right ear. He’s tattooed, with a pair of black lines along each of his cheekbones and a triangular shape running down the centre of his forehead that remind Tal-Maraas of vitaar. 

“Is that so?” Tal-Maraas says. It's fun to flirt, even if he’s also taken the time to notice other signs that he should _absolutely_ not trust this dwarf. The Carta agent’s clothes are loose fitting, but not loose fitting enough that Tal-Maraas can’t see the lean muscle of the other man’s arms. When his eyes move down to look at his new companion’s legs it’s partly to look at how strong his thighs look, and partly to see how many dagger sheaths he has on his belt. But despite himself and his better judgement, Tal-Maraas smiles, one side of his lip raising just a bit. “In that case, let me buy you a drink.”

“Tempting," the dwarf says, and Tal-Maraas tries not to think about the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips, or the way it makes Tal-Maraas’ face feel flushed. “But I don’t like owing people anything.”

“Then give me something in return," his voice is as full of promise as he can make it. “A name, perhaps?”

The dwarf laughs, and it’s a hearty warm laugh that makes Tal-Maraas’ heart skip a beat. “That I can do—Aitor.”

It’s an answer for sure, even if it’s a less detailed answer than he’d like, and it could be a fake name after all. Aitor said it easily, but the Carta man is a good liar. If he followed his best judgement, Tal-Maraas wouldn’t ask any more, and would avoid looking too eager to coax answers out of the man. 

But, on the other hand, sometimes being foolish is fun.

“Got a surname?”

“Aye," Aitor says, and for the first time he seems to hesitate. “But you said _a_ name, not two.”

Tal-Maraas can’t help but chuckle. “In that case, _Aitor_ ," he says, turning away from the dwarf and across the bar, gesturing for the bartender to come over to them. “What will you be having?” Cabot is cleaning an old ale mug and, to his credit, has mostly managed to look like he isn’t eavesdropping.

“You know the place better than me," Aitor says, and Tal-Maraas has the sneaking suspicion Aitor knows exactly how well he knows Skyhold. “What’s good?”

“Two glasses of the mead," Tal-Maraas says to Cabot when he reaches their end of the bar. “The really nice one made with the honey from the Hissing Wastes.”

It’s an expensive mead — a gold sovereign per bottle — and from the way Cabot struggles to open the bottle, nobody has ordered it before them. It had been one of the drinks on a provisions list Josephine had asked for the Inquisitor’s approval on— _to make the Orlesian nobility feel welcome at Skyhold_ , she’d said. When Tal-Maraas places the coins for the two glasses down on the counter, Aitor raises an eyebrow, although the tone of his voice remains light and teasing and the smile never leaves his face. “Irresponsibly spending, are we?” 

Tal-Maraas takes a sip of the mead. It tastes like the honey it was made from, rich and strong, lacking some of the sweetness of other meads but more than making up for it in a robust body. “Isn’t it our right to frivolously spend where we wish?”

“Sure," Aitor says, the eyebrow rising further even though his smile doesn’t vanish. “But most of the time that doesn’t mean buying the most expensive mead in the tavern for a man you’ve just met.”

“You complaining?” he says, and Aitor chuckles. 

“No," the dwarf says, moving his arm so that it gently brushes the qunari’s, keeping eye contact the whole time. “Just maybe would like to get the name of who’s willing to spend this much on me.”

“Thought you didn’t like owing people anything.”

“ _Hm_." He shuffles his chair a little closer to Tal-Maraas, arm resting almost entirely on his. “I don’t. Any suggestions on how I can repay that?”

It’s bait. It’s incredibly obvious bait. And yet, Tal-Maraas can’t help but fall for it. He slides a hand onto the other man’s thigh, and it’s difficult to make the action graceful given the height difference between them but he tries. “I don’t know," he begins, hoping that his voice sounds like a seductive purr and not like gravel. “I can think of a few ways you could repay me.” 

“In that case, speak away.” The dwarf’s voice is low and husky.

“Adaar." It felt odd to refer to himself by surname first to begin with, but by now he’s used to it. “Tal-Maraas Adaar.”

“Oh," Aitor says, in a truly excellent imitation of genuine surprise. “You’re _him_.”

Tal-Maraas is used to this being the point at which people back away from him. It’s easier to flirt with him when they see him as just another vashoth mercenary than it is when they see him as a holy prophet, or as the figurehead of one of the largest organisations in Thedas. It’s almost exactly like Harding once described—that the bigger he is as a symbol, the smaller he is as a person. But this Carta agent not only knew he was before they spoke, but was likely counting on it. 

“That's a problem?” Tal-Maraas asks, even though he already knows the answer.

The dwarf looks him up and down slowly one more time and then shakes his head, leaning into the hand on his leg. “No. No problems here.”

When they move to leave the tavern, there’s a creak of floorboards behind Tal-Maraas. He turns to face the source of the sound. Bull is there, a concerned frown on his face. He places a hand on the smaller qunari’s shoulder, in a gesture almost certainly meant to obfuscate his intent. 

“Hey Boss," he says, giving a slight grin for what Tal-Maraas assumes is the same reason he’s touching his shoulder—to make the encounter seem casual. Bull’s eyes only drop to look at Tal-Maraas’ companion for a moment, but Tal-Maraas is close enough he can see the way they narrow. _Bull knows_ , he realises. “Remember how after the fight with that dragon you said drinks were on you?”

“Tell Cabot to put them on my tab." Tal-Maraas hopes the unspoken _’I know, and I know what I’m doing’_ comes across, even if it’s not entirely true. He pulls back on his overcoat slightly to covertly indicate to Bull that he still has his daggers by his side. “I’m heading out for the night.” 

Bull doesn’t look happy, but he seems to accept it, nodding as he lets go of Tal-Maraas’ arm and heads back towards the bar—giving a slight glaring glance down to Aitor as he does.

It’s a warm night towards the end of summer, and though the light is low the air is crisp. To avoid the great hall, Tal-Maraas takes them back to his private quarters through the long route. It gives him time to figure out what he’s going to do about the spy in their midst, and it doesn’t hurt that Skyhold looks gorgeous. It’s not as crowded as it is during the daytime, but there are still enough people about that it feels alive. When they walk through the gardens, the qunari can’t help but feel satisfied with his decision to turn it into a herb garden—the smell of dawn lotus and crystal grace hangs heavy and sweet in the air. There are enough lamps lit around the fortress that he can see where they’re going, but also enough that he can take the time to study Aitor’s face. If the dwarf has studied the layout of Skyhold — and it’s likely that he has, if he’s here on a mission — he doesn’t show it, and the expression of wonder he wears feels real. His eyebrows are raised and his mouth slightly open, and… _Maker,_ now is not the time for Tal-Maraas to think about how soft the spy’s lips look, how easy it would be to lean down and press his against them… 

“It’s beautiful," Aitor says, and he looks up with such a wide bright smile on his face that Tal-Maraas’ heart sinks at the knowledge that it’s probably all performance. “Skyhold, I mean. It’s beautiful.”

Tal-Maraas nods, because he can’t bring himself to say anything. He knows what’s coming.

Aitor is easy to knock off balance, and when they make it to the tower staircase that leads to the Inquisitor’s Quarters, Tal-Maraas pins him against a wall with a knife at his throat. The qunari is taller by a good foot and some change, and the dwarf’s legs hang in the air as he’s kept in place by the other man’s weight. Tal-Maraas brings their faces close, tightens his grip around his dagger and pushes it just a little more firmly into Aitor’s skin. “I’m not a fool," he hisses. “I know what you are.”

The redhead looks from the knife at his throat to the face of the man holding it, and then back again. For a moment, he looks like he’s trying to find some kind of excuse; trying to come up with a last ditch attempt at cover. And then his shoulders relax against the wall and he laughs. 

“You in the habit of threatening all the Carta agents who bring you your lyrium? Or am I _special_?” 

Tal-Maraas grits his teeth and tries not to think about how much he’s aware of the little spot where the skin of his hand touches the skin of the other man’s neck. “The Carta agents who bring lyrium don’t pretend not to know who I am. They don’t make it a point to try and be friendly with me. They don’t try and talk me into bed.”

“That’s a shame.” Somehow, despite everything, Aitor’s voice is still steady and smooth. “A handsome man like you? Should be talked into bed at every opportunity.” 

The qunari’s grip around his blade weakens for just a moment, and that’s enough. Despite his short stature, Aitor can put a lot of force behind his blows. Tal-Maraas barely has time to register that the dagger has dropped out of his hand, hitting the floor with a clang, before Aitor produces a dagger of his own. Using the point of his newly-drawn weapon to push Tal-Maraas back, when the taller man lets go of him, he falls to the floor but manages to find his footing. Steadying himself, he circles his adversary with the dagger out in front of him. It reminds Tal-Maraas of the vultures he saw in the Western Approach, always looking for a moment of weakness. He draws the second blade he has on his belt and circles Aitor in return, and it would look almost like a dance if their movements weren’t made awkward by how narrow the hallway is. And if they weren’t both brandishing weapons.

“I’m not here to kill you," Aitor says, the words hissed between clenched teeth.

“What are you here for then?” 

They circle a few times before Aitor speaks. His gaze moves from the knife in Tal-Maraas’ hands to the qunari’s face, and his eyes are narrowed in suspicion. “If I tell you why I’m here, would you believe me?”

In truth, Tal-Maraas doesn’t know. The dwarf is — if not a born liar — a man who is so used to lying that the lies slip out of him as easily as a sinner from a sermon. But Tal-Maraas has always tried to find the best in people. He wants the answer to be true enough that he can believe it. 

“That depends," he says, trying to make the words sound as heavy and grave as he can. 

After a few moments the dwarf sighs, sliding his daggers back into their scabbards. As he moves closer, his hands are raised to show his palms are empty.

“I got no desire for this to get any messier. I’m pretty sure if I hurt the Inquisitor I’d never leave this keep alive." Aitor smiles, and despite everything it’s disarming. He steps closer still. “So I’ll be honest, for once.”

“Is being honest even possible for you?” 

The Carta agent clutches his heart in mock indignation. “You wound me Inquisitor. I’ve been honest about plenty tonight.”

“Like what?” Aitor is close enough now that it would be easy to lunge forward to hit him with the blade, but Tal-Maraas feels frozen in place and incredibly warm at the same time.

“Well for one, you are _damn_ handsome.” Flushing, his grip on the dagger getting less steady over time, the qunari says the first thing that he can think of to say. 

“I’d feel much better about this if you didn’t have daggers on you.”

Aitor unbuckles his belt—the sight and sound of which makes Tal-Maraas’ skin flush—and slides the dagger sheaths off of it. The daggers hit the floor with a clang, and the dwarf looks up expectantly. 

“ _All_ your daggers," Tal-Maraas says, because he might be a fool but he isn’t stupid. “Could you remove _all_ your daggers, please?” There’s a long silent pause, after which at least three other daggers are added to the pile at their feet.

The explanation — when it comes — feels ridiculous. But it doesn’t feel any more ridiculous than plenty of the other messes Tal-Maraas has found himself in as Inquisitor.

“So," Aitor begins. “The Carta isn’t one organisation, you know that, right? It’s a syndicate. The Carta family the Inquisition gets its lyrium from—that’s not mine. I’m a Cadash, not a Bradic. Came to Skyhold to find out how much they’re selling for so we can undercut them.”

The qunari raises an eyebrow. “You came all this way just to undercut a business rival?”

Aitor shrugs. “Sure. Business is business.”

The dwarf is so close now that any tiny motion Tal-Maraas could make is almost certain to make them touch, and the idea makes him feel like he’s on fire. Aitor’s words make some of his actions make sense—being Inquisitor means Tal-Maraas is far enough removed that he doesn’t know the ins-and-outs of how lyrium is smuggled into Skyhold, but it sounds plausible enough. But that alone doesn’t explain everything Aitor has done at Skyhold—why he slid down in the next seat over, or why he’s been so quick and easy to flirt. Tal-Maraas frowns.

“So, say I believe you. That still doesn’t explain why you were there in the Herald’s Rest. You could have found out how much the Inquisition was buying lyrium for in any number of ways that didn’t involve flirting with me, and drew far less attention to you.”

If they were the same height, he’d be able to feel Aitor’s warm breath on his skin. “Maybe I just _wanted_ to flirt. An evening in a tavern with a handsome man is never an evening wasted. And besides," the dwarf’s voice low and raspy, making Tal-Maraas even more desperate to hear that voice growling into his ear, “it’s not like you haven’t been flirting back.”

He smiles, a cruel smile that makes Tal-Maraas want to whimper. “Is there perhaps something _you_ want, Inquisitor?”

Explanation aside, Aitor is still a member of a crime syndicate who came to Skyhold to commit espionage. He’s admitted as much. As much as Tal-Maraas wants to know what those strong hands would feel like on his body — what it would be like to see the dwarf’s red curls loose and flowing down his back, and what the man’s beard would feel like if he trailed kisses down Tal-Maraas’ neck — it would be a terrible idea. 

But _maker_ , Tal-Maraas can’t remember the last time somebody touched him or looked at him like this; like he’s made of flesh and blood, rather than something untouchable and sacred. It's been so long since somebody looked at him like they know that he’s capable of worldly and profane desires that will never make it to any version of the Chant.

“Maybe," the qunari whispers, like he’s afraid of giving voice to the answer. But not giving voice to it doesn’t mean the answer doesn’t still exist—that it doesn’t burn inside him.

Tal-Maraas feels two beats of his heart. He drops the dagger he’s still holding in his hand, gets to his knees, and kisses Aitor. 

The kiss is gentle and forceful all at once. Partly because of being on his knees, and partly because of the way that one of Aitor’s hands has found its way to his hair, Tal-Maraas wants to melt into him. There’s a gentle tug on his hair and he feels himself open his lips to moan into the other man’s mouth. It’s foolish, he thinks, to take the risk of letting this man close just because he’s pathetic enough to want to be touched this badly. But _Maker_ if he doesn’t feel less and less shameful about it as the dwarf’s hand moves from his hair to his horns, pulling him into their kiss. The man’s beard is softer than expected—he must use some kind of oil in it, because it smells like cedarwood. Tal-Maraas’ eyes are closed and all he can think about is how good it feels, kissing shameless and open mouthed, and how somewhere below their lips he can feel his heart reacting. 

His heartbeat goes from heavy and slow to heavy and fast, the rhythm like war drums on a battlefield. Tal-Maraas hasn’t been kissed in a while, but his memories haven’t faded enough that it isn’t obvious how differently Aitor kisses him compared to all the people who’ve kissed him before. He’d been a novelty to them — a mercenary passing through town, an exotic curiosity — and they’d kissed him like he was an intellectual exercise. Aitor kisses him like he wants to devour him. 

Tal-Maraas has never been the one to be devoured before. He likes the idea, he realises, and he flushes but there’s no shame that comes with it.

And then he remembers. “Wait," he says, pulling away from the kiss. “There’s something you need to know.” He pauses for a moment, unsure of how to phrase it. His lips feel as swollen as Aitor’s look, and he’s suddenly very aware of how sweaty his face is. Before he can find the words, the Carta dwarf interrupts him.

“Oh, _that._ Don’t worry, I already know about what kind of man you are, Adaar," he says, winking before he casually follows it up with words Tal-Maraas never expected to hear. “It’s alright. Same here.”

“Oh," is all the qunari can say. “ _Oh_.”

The bedframe in his quarters is a simple Fereldan thing — sturdy and inelegant — but the mattress is an Orlesian affair. It’s firm and soft at the same time, pliable where Tal-Maraas sinks down into it but also able to push back and hold its shape. His head is supported by the silk cushions that cover the bed — all in wildly clashing shades of red and green and blue — and when Aitor straddles his chest to kiss him again, it feels like he’s weightless. The Carta dwarf kisses with even less hesitation than last time; one hand tangled in the qunari’s dark brown hair, and the other toying with the buttons of his shirt. They’ve lost some of their clothing on the way to the bed — the coat that gave Aitor away in the first place has been discarded somewhere near the sofa, their boots unceremoniously dumped on the floor at the foot of the bed — but there’s still a few layers to go. 

The position is a little awkward, especially given their height difference, but it leaves Tal-Maraas’ hands free to run down the other man’s back. His shirt is one of the garments they’ve shed on the way and — aside from the cloth garment wrapped around his chest to keep it flat, and the handful of raised scars — it’s all soft skin, so warm under the qunari’s touch that he can’t help but want to pull him in and pull him closer. His other hand is in the dwarf’s hair, tugging at the ribbon that’s keeping it tied up until it loosens. With the ribbon gone, Aitor’s curls fall freely down his back, bouncing slightly with each motion their two bodies make together. He bites down on Tal-Maraas’ bottom lip and the qunari moans. He wants a thigh between his legs—wants even more friction between their bodies than there already is. When they part, they’re both breathing heavily. Aitor’s hair is messy, and a few stray curls stick to his forehead as he cup’s Tal-Maraas’ cheek. 

“How do you want me to fuck you, _Inquisitor_?" Normally Tal-Maraas hates being called that title, but from Aitor’s lips it sounds like a pet name. 

There’s so much he wants — so many things the dwarf could do to him that would take his breath away — and when he tries to give voice to them, he finds he can’t speak. Instead, he leans over to the right side of the bed to touch the wooden box that’s at his bedside. He opens the box lid with a creak and only a brief flush of shame. Aitor looks at the box contents for a moment and then grins—a wide dangerous grin that makes every hair on the back of Tal-Maraas’ neck stand up and makes his cock ache. 

“Oh, _Inquisitor_. I see alcohol isn’t the only frivolous spending habit you have.”

Tal-Maraas gives a little choked whine, but only because it’s true. He’s spent far too many sovereigns for the amount of use his collection has actually managed to see. There’s the harness in deep and rich red-brown Antivan leather, the perfect midpoint of soft enough to be comfortable to wear and robust enough to be able to withstand rough use. There’s a set of three cocks, different sizes and shapes but all in the same fetching dark polished stone. There’s the set of solid glass plugs, and more half-used bottles of oils and ointments than any one person needs. And then there’s the jewel of his collection — the only part that’s seen enough use to justify its cost, in all honesty — the small ceramic toy that rumbles with mysterious magic. Aitor pulls the harness out of the box, seemingly enraptured by the feel of the leather. It’s excellently made; the stitching perfect, the leather dyed to Tal-Maraas’ exact specifications. The model is made for a human, but there’s enough length in the straps that with some adjusting of the buckles it’s comfortable for somebody qunari-sized. 

Briefly, Tal-Maraas wonders if the harness is adjustable the other way—if it could be made tight enough to fit a dwarf.

“So that’s what you want, Inquisitor? To fuck me with this?” 

Tal-Maraas shakes his head, or at least he shakes his head as best he can without his horns impaling some pillows. “No I…” He stops, flushing bright red. “I was wondering if you could… I mean, I wanted you to…”

There’s a flash of understanding on Aitor’s face, and it melts into a smile that makes Tal-Maraas want to agree to anything and everything the man wearing it might want from him. He leans down to kiss the qunari again, gently placing the harness on the bed beside them. It’s only the briefest of kisses this time, and their lips only meet for a moment, but it makes Tal-Maraas feel like he’s on fire. The dwarf’s mouth moves to his neck, gentle kisses turning into bites that make him gasp and moan. There’s an especially hard bite right before Aitor moves down further still, shifting his body so he can better kiss Tal-Maraas’ chest. His hands have already made light work of the buttons and the shirt is completely open now, exposing a thin trail of hair across a flat chest. 

Tal-Maraas can’t feel it when Aitor kisses his chest — magic always has risks, and the spell that gave him his chest as it is now also took away a good deal of nerve sensitivity — but damn if he doesn’t enjoy the visual. The side effects aren’t something he regrets — he’d known the risks when taking the time to track down the specialist spirit healer, and they’re a damn deal preferable over the alternative — but he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to be able to react to every movement of lips and tongue. For what it’s worth, Aitor seems to realise he isn’t reacting in the same way, because the dwarf moves one hand down to between his legs. Tal-Maraas realises he touches it like it’s any other man’s cock, cupping it with the palm of his hand, giving steady pressure and even strokes over what remains of the qunari’s clothes. Tal-Maraas’ hips hitch instinctively and he grinds against the stable resistance that Aitor’s hand is offering.

His mouth has moved back to Tal-Maraas’ neck when he growls a question that makes Tal-Maraas thankful he’s lying down because it makes him feel like he’s floating. “So Inquisitor, which hole do you want me to fuck?”

When Tal-Maraas gives an answer, he can’t help that it turns into a long desperate moan. Aitor opens one of the bottles of oil from the chest before he starts to work on the qunari’s ass, and the slick sounds as the dwarf coats his fingers makes Tal-Maraas’ hips jolt desperately for some friction. Desperate for anything. He gives a whine, and the next thing he notices is the hand clamping down on his hip and the laugh behind him, dark and hungry. When Aitor finally, _finally_ touches him it’s all external, two slick fingers pressing down into him, applying even pressure in large circles around his hole. The strokes are slow at first, and even though the feeling of those fingers pressed into him is almost all Tal-Maraas can think about, he knows the pressure is relatively light. 

Aitor puts more force into his hands with each motion, and the circles become tighter until all he’s doing is stroking his two thumbs up over his hole. Tal-Maraas pushes back against those fingers, hoping that the reaction to them — all whimpering and moaning — will encourage him to slide those fingers inside. He wants to feel stretched out; wants something inside him he can clench around. And he wants it so badly that he has no way to describe it other than he _aches_ for something inside it. Aitor’s hands move, and for a moment Tal-Maraas is sure that he’s going to get what he wants. He takes a heavy breath in anticipation.

And then Aitor continues the massage. It feels nicer like this, with his knuckles applying pressure instead of his fingertips, moving his clenched fist like he’s kneading. But it’s still not what Tal-Maraas wants. He looks up at the other man — and he must look a right state, all sweat and messy hair and flushed pink skin — but he doesn’t care. He also doesn’t care that when he speaks, it definitely doesn’t sound as put together or authoritative as it did in his head. 

“Thought you were going to fuck me," he says, although he stutters through half the words and another quarter come very close to just turning into incoherent moans. “Not tease me.” 

The Carta agent smiles, and for a moment there’s a flash of cruelty in it that makes Tal-Maraas’ heart catch in his chest. And then Aitor presses his fingers inside his ass.

Tal-Maraas hasn’t been fucked by anyone since he became the Herald, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t fuck himself sometimes. Between the size of the cocks he keeps in the bedside box and his own fingers, he’s experienced enough that he takes the first two fingers like they’re nothing. His own fingers are so large compared to the dwarf’s that it takes him a moment to register that the hand is actually inside him. It’s only the husky moan that Aitor gives as he watches his fingers press inside that makes Tal-Maraas realise what’s happened. 

Thankfully the dwarf seems to realise how loose the qunari is without Tal-Maraas having to say it. He pulls the two fingers out just a little to add two more slick oil covered fingers alongside them. Tal-Maraas feels it this time — the stretch isn’t intense enough to burn, but it feels warm and deep — and he throws back a head against the pillows, letting his hips jolt upwards and his cock twitch. Aitor looks at it, enthralled. 

“Did the magic do that?" The dwarf’s voice is nothing more than a low whisper. “Make it that big, I mean. Or are all qunari just blessed in the clit department?”

Tal-Maraas tries to sound as casual as he can with most of a fist inside him. “A little of both.” 

Aitor still looks enraptured, unable to avert his eyes. “ _Nice_ ," he purrs, and a moment later he’s leaned down and has his lips wrapped around Tal-Maraas’ cock. He runs his tongue around the head in his mouth, moaning into it, oil-slicked thumb finally joining his other fingers. It’s so intense, feeling both Aitor’s hand and mouth on him at the same time, and with each stroke of that sinful tongue Tal-Maraas finds it harder to think about anything except how it feels. He has enough sense left to know he’s whimpering but not enough to care, and all he wants is to come like this, clenching around the other man and with his cock in his mouth and…

Suddenly, there’s no longer lips around his cock, and the sudden loss of sensation is so frustrating it makes him want to sob.

“So," Aitor says, looking far too pleased with himself. “You were saying something about wanting me to fuck you.”

“ _Bastard_ ," Tal-Maraas says, gasping for air. The Carta dwarf laughs.

“I’m always a bastard, Inquisitor. Thought you’d figured that out.”

When they pull the harness tight around Aitor’s hips, there’s enough leftover length in the straps that they dangle awkwardly, but Tal-Maraas barely notices them. He’s far too focused on the man wearing them, at the sight of the dark stone cock that juts from his hips. It’s not the largest of the set of three, but even at the mid-size it’s large, and Tal-Maraas knows the firmness of the stone will make it feel larger still inside him. When Aitor pushes his legs back — his hips lifted up off the mattress by the far-too-expensive wedge-shaped cushion that’s been collecting dust at his bedside — he can’t help but let a moan fall from between his lips.

The dwarf pushes into him slowly at first, and even with the restrained movement and how much he’s been stretched out already, Tal-Maraas can’t help but gasp as the cock pushes inside him. It’s cold—and much as it may have taken a long time for Tal-Maraas to accept that he prefers this coldness to the warmth of flesh-and-blood cocks, he really does. It makes him tense up at the intrusion more at first, but once he relaxes it makes the sensation of being kept open and full feel more intense. And feel it he does, simultaneously stretched and full, even when Aitor has only half the length of the cock inside him.

“More?” The dwarf asks, his voice a purr. “Harder?” The questions are genuine and Tal-Maraas appreciates that, but there’s a teasing tone to it too, like Aitor is daring him to go as far as he can—and then a little more. 

Tal-Maraas pulls his legs back a little further. “More. Harder.” 

Aitor chuckles, and obliges him. The roughness feels good, the weight of his entire body pounding into Tal-Maraas’. Tal-Maraas won’t come from this — even with the magic that was performed on his chest, he’s still not been changed in every respect; there’s no spot in his ass that Aitor can press against — but _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel good. He wants to come like this, on Aitor’s hard cock.

Tal-Maraas looks up at the Carta dwarf’s face, and it’s flushed pink and slick with sweat. A moment, and Aitor notices. He smiles and stops thrusting, balancing forward to run a hand through the mess of the qunari’s hair. “Something wrong, Inquisitor?”

The qunari wants to wrap his legs around the smaller man’s hips and pull him forward, making him thrust deeper. He wants to keep getting fucked like this, because even though the Aitor keeps saying his title, it is so easy to forget he _is_ the Inquisitor when he’s being fucked like this. He doesn’t feel divine or touched or sent from the heavens. He feels earthly and filthy, and right now that is worth more than all the Chantry gilt in Thedas. “The toy,” Tal-Maraas manages to say. If he feels like this now, he’ll feel even more distanced from Andraste if he comes around somebody else’s cock. “The one in the box. Give it to me. _Please_.” He whines the last word, and he must do it beautifully, because Aitor gives him what he wants.

The ceramic toy doesn’t so much  _ give _ Tal-Maraas orgasms as it forces them out of him. The markings on it shine while in use, and even with it pressed hard against his cock, Tal-Maraas can see the faint blue glow of the rune. He can feel the motions of the toy — back and forth rapidly, like the wings of a dragonfly vibrating as it hovers over a lake — against him and then deeper still, almost to his core. It’s strong and rumbly, and between that and the feeling of Aitor’s cock still pushing in and out of his ass, it isn’t long before Tal-Maraas comes. Though the cock might not have been able to make him come alone, it changes the nature of his orgasms when they come; normally it’s a moment where his hips lift off the mattress and he feels his lower body clench, but this time it’s a whole body affair. Pressure — more pressure than Tal-Maraas thought was possible to contain in one body — builds slowly, and then releases all at once. His back arches off the mattress, his hands clawing at the skin of his thighs, and he can feel every part of his body clenching and releasing in one go. 

When he finds himself again, he realises that Aitor is looking down at him with eyes full of joy and lust, and Tal-Maraas wants to stay there — being looked at like that — forever. The cock is slid out of him and in the bliss, it takes Tal-Maraas a moment after Aitor unbuckles the harness and eases it to the ground that he realises that Aitor is turning to leave.

“Wait,” Tal-Maraas cries out, and Aitor freezes where he is. “You don’t have to go. Not yet.” There’s a pause, and Tal-Maraas could probably hear a pin drop in the silence. Something in his guts sinks.  _ By the maker _ , he is a fool, but this is the peak of his foolishness.

Thankfully, he is not the only fool in the Inquisitor’s quarters. Aitor turns back to him from the edge of the bed. 

“Alright, Inquisitor,” he says. This is the best bad decision Tal-Maraas has ever made. “I’ll stay for a second round.”


End file.
